Vince Neil after-party brings out the freaks
A Vince Neil after party attracts freaks with a certain kind of commitment.
It’s 11:30 p.m. at the Greene Street dance club on April 21 and a sparse crowd of ’80s hair-rockers hovers at the edges of the room waiting for the singer of Motley CrÃ¼e to arrive by limo after the band’s concert at the Coliseum.
There are the tall dudes with tight jeans, black leather jackets and heavy metal-style mullets sitting around a cocktail table on the balcony, and the ladies rocking at the bar. The ladies, who are probably in their early 40s, look a little hefty around the middle. One sports a Joan Jett haircut, a shaggy evolution of the Bettie Page. Another wears long flowing brown tresses that fall to her butt, and is fitted into a pair of fake pearl-studded black hot pants.
It looks like the party might not get started until six young men arrive at the threshold carrying an inflatable sex doll, a slightly smaller-than-life size representation of a bikini-clad woman wearing a police hat that reads ‘sex police.’
The door lady refuses to allow the doll, named ‘Bubbles,’ into the club, so the young men leave it behind the ticket counter.
The guys, who come from Fayetteville originally, are holding a roving bachelor party. This is their third or fourth bar of the night and they willingly pay the $15 cover charge.
‘“We were just walking around downtown, and we said: ‘Hey, we’ll party with Vince,’” says Travis Addis, the best man. ‘“It’ll probably suck, but oh well.’”
Just about that time, a guy drinking a cocktail out of a plastic cup whose ensemble of ponytail, full beard and red and black flame-job baseball cap ensemble gives him the appearance of an extra for a contemporary adaptation of Deliverance, spots me scribbling in my notebook.
The DJ is spinning ‘“Sweet Home Alabama.’”
He tells me he’s an ‘“independent’” film actor and gives me the lowdown on the production of the Jon Bon Jovi movie, part of which was shot in Greensboro’s Green Hill Cemetery. In short: it was messed up, the extras didn’t really work but got paid, and he doesn’t know if the movie will ever be released.
After a time, he asks me if I ‘“do gay porn.’”
No, but is there work for porn actors in Greensboro?
I ask him if they wear condoms, or if they get tested for HIV before they perform.
‘“No,’” he says. ‘“I do bareback. That’s anal sex without protection. I have full-blown AIDS. It’s whatever you’re willing to do. It’s up to the individual actor, not the director.’” His hand grazes my nipple, and I back away, pretending to be distracted by something happening across the room.
‘“You probably just think I’m just a f*cked-up freak,’” he whimpers before disappearing into the crowd.
By now, the club is starting to fill, and it’s apparent that the CrÃ¼e fans have made it downtown from the Coliseum. At midnight the floor is jammed with black-leather dudes, girls clothed in slinky halter tops and roughnecks wearing sleeveless shirts. The DJ is playing ‘“War Pigs’” by Black Sabbath and ‘“Back in Black’” by AC/DC.
Suddenly, Vince Neil and his entourage are hustled in the back door and into a chained-off terrace that constitutes the VIP section. The singer retreats into an alcove with his wife, Lia Gheradini, and a couple of tour managers to deposit some belongings, and then he walks along the chain to greet the fans with high fives.
‘“Who was at the show tonight?’” he yells in a somewhat squeaky voice. ‘“Did you have a good time? Thanks for coming to the show. Thanks for rocking. Thank you so f*cking much, man!’”
Then he signs a few autographs, and returns to the alcove.
Only about a dozen people are allowed into the VIP area. Two reporters, the local promoter and the manager of Greene Street are confined to the front area. A handful of Greene Street security guards, hulking male specimens wearing shaved heads and black T-shirts, zealously guard the perimeter.
A photographer can come into the VIP area, but no candid photos of Vince are allowed, Assistant Manager for Motley CrÃ¼e Jack Carson informs me. In fact, almost no one is allowed to interact with the singer at all, with the exception of about three rounds of the high five, handshake and autograph routine.
Wearing a green T-shirt engraved with ‘live fast die young’ in gothic lettering and distressed blue jeans, Vince spends most of the hour-long promotional appearance sitting on a leather couch in the alcove, his arm draped over the shoulder of Lia, a peroxide blond who wears a white tank top and similarly distressed jeans. Vince whispers in her ear, and they occasionally laugh with apparent intimacy.
In addition to the Greene Street security, two beefy Motley CrÃ¼e security guys stand at either side of the alcove’s entrance to make sure none of the local hangers-on bother Vince.
Vince is seen holding a bottle of beer and later a glass of champagne. Lia swigs from a water bottle. As the hour progresses, Lia moves her crossed leg over Vince’s leg so her ankle rests on his knee. Occasionally, one of Vince’s handlers, a guy wearing a Dakota Grill T-shirt and a backwards black ball cap with upside down sunglasses propped on the bill, discretely informs the singer of something and then drops back to allow him and Lia a modicum of privacy. The handler also walks in front of Vince during the fan interface moments.
Then Vince and his entourage are hustled back out the door.
The crowd thins, and Gay Porn Actor boogies on the dance floor in a kind of solitary state of animation. The music has long since changed over from ‘“Shout at the Devil’” to ‘“shake that booty.’”
Some CrÃ¼e fans, a man and a woman, shyly grind against each other to the ’80s disco music. Another fan, a young man named Lance Ferguson who wears flip-flops, proclaims himself more than satisfied by his encounter with hard-rock greatness.
‘“For a rock star to do that was f*cking awesome,’” he says.
Then he gushes about the concert: ‘“It was a damn good show. They came out with all their 80s sh*t. For a rock band to come back like they have’… they were better than Yes. They were much better than Aerosmith.’”
To comment on this story, e-mail Jordan Green at email@example.com